The Only Way Out is In
by KrystalBlaze - Jerikor
Summary: Trapped within inside his own mind, Chris is a catatonic. He dosen't want to remember what's happened to him. All that brings is pain. But sometimes the only way out is in. *updated April 7,2003*
1. Default Chapter

PROLOUGE  
  
  
  
Dr. Raymond Tanner entered the room quietly, shutting the door and entering with compose.  
  
His patient sat on the raised couch, his blue eyes watching the doctor dimly.  
  
"He's set," the technician Travis Rodriguez said, nodding at his patient. "Everything's set. Your earset is right here, Ray. The lady's on the other side of the glass. You've talked to her, I presume?"  
  
"Everything's in order," Tanner replied, nodding, his attention focused on his patient. "Thanks, Trav. Only on my order, you here."  
  
"I gotcha, doc," Rodriguez answered, wearily retreating back behind the glass panel.  
  
Watching his patient, Tanner went to his chair and slipped his headset on, flicking on the switch, and contemplating the patient's appearence. His eyes were heavy lidded, his blonde hair limp and listless, as it usually was.  
  
Breathing shallowy, he waved his hand in front of his patient. The blonde haired man jerked his head, but gave no other reply.  
  
Praying, Tanner started to speak.  
  
"Chris," he said. "It's Ray."  
  
The catatonic didn't reply.  
  
"I'm going to count from one to five, and when I reach five, you'll be in a trance like sleep and answer all my questions. Ready?"  
  
As usual, Chris didn't answer.  
  
Tanner glanced out the window. The woman outside the window watched, her face wrenched, her eyes focused on Chris.  
  
"One . . . you're eyes are closing . ."  
  
Chris's eyes began to slip shut slightly.  
  
"Two . . .you're starting to feel tired, and you want to rest . . ."  
  
The catatonic's eyes were heavy, his mouth twitching.  
  
"Three . . . you're almost in a dream like trance . . .four, you're in a dream state . . and five, you're in your relaxed state."  
  
Chris's eyes flickered.  
  
"What is your name?" Tanner said, his heart pounding, holding his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stephanie McMahon holding her hand over her heart.  
  
"My name's Chris Irvine," answered the patient.  
  
  
  
  
  
Review, and you'll get another chapter.  
  
Akila 


	2. Chapter 1

This is a new fic that's probably gonna take awhile to complete. It was 119 pages on my other computer, but my baby brother(I love him, but his nickname is SD: Seek and Destroy!), in a complete freak accident, erased it all, not to mention my other stories. I'm going to tone down the detail, but hopefully you'll still enjoy it.  
  
***: italics.  
  
My computer won't do italics on any of my stories, so I resort to the asterisks. Thanks, and it's always helpful if you review.  
  
Oh yeah, this story is based around King of the Ring 2001. I know, far back, but I started it back then. To keep my tragic computer history short, I worked on it for about two months, the computer broke until about January of this year, and it took me about two week to get back into the feel. So I've been working this for about a year. Well, until SD decided to erase it. Anyways, that's my mournful computer history.  
  
The Only Way Out is In  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
  
  
I sighed while I packed my bag. It had been a brutal night. A Triple Threat for the WWF championship. How delightful. Of course, my friend Chris Benoit was riding on his way to an ambulance, Steve Williams as well, with their drastic injuries. I suppose I had been lucky; I escaped from the hellhole that was the ring with only a concussion for my troubles.  
  
Troubles of course that didn't lead me to the belt.  
  
My door suddenly opened and Mark Calloway poked his head into the room.  
  
"You're nice," I snorted.  
  
"I know," he said with no humor in his tone, his eyes serious. "I wanted to make sure you're okay. It looked like a brutal match."  
  
"Nice observation, Dead Man."  
  
"Thanks. You okay?"  
  
"Concussion," I said, blowing air out through my mouth. "It's nothing, really. You can leave now."  
  
"Sometimes you make me think you like being a jackass."  
  
"One of my many specialties, along with being charming, charasmatic, on my way to becoming WWF champion, lead singer of my own-"  
  
"Please, spare me," Mark snarled. "Tell me you're going back to the hotel."  
  
That pissed me off. He was playing motherhen and I hardly even knew why. My head was pounding and I wanted a drink. But, knowing Mark, if he knew I was going to get a drink, he'd probably bring the whole government down on my head.  
  
"I will," I said innocently, flashing a smile that I knew was overkill.  
  
"You bastard. Have fun." With a last scrutinizing look, he left.  
  
Goody goody.  
  
Hefting my bag on my shoulder, my head pounding, I walked out the door and into the hallway.  
  
  
  
The streets were deserted and the wind gusty. I was so tired I thought I was going to fall over, but somehow I kept myself stumbling along the deserted streets. I hadn't spent the money on a rental car, hadn't taken my own, and was relying on taxi services to carry me around. I decided to sprawl along and just find what I could, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.  
  
I was so tired, I-  
  
I was suddenly slammed into a wall. My heart jumped to my rib cage. I spun around, my legs weak.  
  
"Watch it!" snapped a voice and I froze.  
  
The world stopped around me.  
  
I was trapped back where I had begun.  
  
No, no, no! NO!  
  
"You look fimilar," the voice said, suddenly curious.  
  
I kept my face glued to the ground, praying violently. Please, no, not again!  
  
"I don't know you," I shakily said. "I don't know you."  
  
"If you're sure," his voice said reluctantly. "If you're dead sure."  
  
"I am."  
  
"See ya."  
  
His pressure was lifted from my body. Choking, I breathed in deeply. Memories were spinning in my mind, memories whose colors were blurring together.  
  
Lowering my head, sagging my shoulders, I continued on my walk.  
  
  
  
  
  
The bar was dim and pratically empty, and I was drunk.  
  
I was drunk as a dog.  
  
I could keep my balance walking on the top rope better than I could now.  
  
Slapping a bill down on the counter, I staggered away toward the door, my eyes spinning, the world still blurring in my eyes. I was going to pass out, I knew it, but if I did, Vince would probably kill me. I went up a staircase and fumbled with the knob.  
  
"Wrong door, genius," somebody snickered behind me.  
  
Wrong door? It was a door, a quaint door that was my ticket into fresh air.  
  
Ignoring the bastard person behind me, I stepped out and was greeted by a foul smell.  
  
The trash alleyway. Bastard person was right.  
  
Swearing, I turned back to the door and tried the knob. It didn't open. It was locked and closed. Licking my lips, I turned around, to head-  
  
Something crashed into my skull! A hard, round thing smashed into my head.  
  
Yelping, I fell, my reflexes slowed by the alcohol tainting my blood.  
  
"Grab him!"  
  
My arms were jerked roughly behind my back. My head was hammerlocked between an arm.  
  
I couldn't breathe. I started bucking my body.  
  
"Hold him still!"  
  
I froze. The voice. The voice again, the *voice!*  
  
"So you remember," said he, coming closer. I lowered my eyes, tremors wracking my body. "I hoped you would. It makes such an easier victim."  
  
I gave a muffled shout.  
  
"Give it to me!" He yelled for something, and then a black cloth was shoved onto my mouth and nose. Unable to breathe, I was forced to inhale the concotion smothering the cloth. My head began to feel heavy, my eyes drowsy. "Sweet dreams," he sneered.  
  
My eyelids shutting, I was carried away by nothing.  
  
  
  
My eyes were incredibly heavy when I woke, and when I did, the only thing that greeted me was pain and darkness.  
  
Groaning, my head pounding loudly, I raised my head, trying to knock away pain and dark shrouding me. What had happened? I searched my memory and found nothing of the like coming back to me. I blinked, trying to wash away the waves, but nothing came back.  
  
I had to get to my feet, and become aware of my surroundings.  
  
When I tried to get in my breath, I felt something clogging my nose and clinging to my mouth. Confused, I raised my hand and swiped. Something warm and sticky came off. Squinting, I looked, but nothing could be seen in this darkness. I lowered my hand, and something soft met my hand.  
  
Halting, I looked down, and squinted hard.  
  
The outline came to me slowly, and I pressed down to try and confirm my analysis. When I had it, I froze for a second, still atop of the thing under me. Panic hit me and I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, it couldn't be, what had happened?  
  
Unable to keep it in, I screamed.  
  
I was stradling a human body.  
  
  
  
  
  
Alright, I know, sounds like a lot of other fics. I had an idea that's going to come out in a while. I built the story on the base of that idea, as well as the idea of the prolouge. It'll be appearent later. Remember, if you're confused, the prolouge is only the prolouge. It's connected to the story, alright, but it's still only the prolouge. Confusing? I think so, but try to work it out(I'm not trying to be smart or anything!). Review please, I'd appreciate it. 


	3. chapter 2

The Only Way Out is In  
  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
  
  
Paul Ortiz was lean and frim, despite his age of fifty-two. This was credited to the fact that he walked to and from his work everyday, six long blocks of uphill work, dressed in his full attire.  
  
The attire of a police officer, for he was the police cheif of Sacramento.  
  
He hurried along the sidewalk, the gusty wind prickling his balding and graying head. His wife often fretted about him, for his job was dangerous and he was old. She often said one day walking home from work in the dark alleyways, he would be killed by a crazy murder. He often replied by saying he'd catch the killer and put him directly in his place behind bars.  
  
Now, he hurried past the city arena and frowned in disgust at the title currently electrified across its viewing screen: WWF KING OF THE RING.  
  
His eight year old son was addicted to wrestling, and it was only by his wife's persistant urgings did he allow Jason to watch the horrid entertainment. He found it disgusting and terrible, a window to the savages of third country worlds.  
  
Still watching the sign warily, he made his usual turn into the alleyway that would lead him to the winding road back to his safe, secure house.  
  
He stopped shock still when he heard a muffled scream.  
  
Instinctively, his hand went to the police belt he still had on and took the flashlight out, flicking it on, and racing down the alley quietly.  
  
"Oh God, what happened? Oh my God, what happened?"  
  
His light washed over a blonde haired man, his face, hair, and body slicked with blood, stradling the limp form of a bloody woman.  
  
A murder.  
  
The scenario raced through his mind.  
  
Disgust plucked at him as he jerked his gun from holster.  
  
"FREEZE!" he roared, pointing the gun with one hand, steadying the light with the other. "Sacramento PD! Don't move, you sick son of a bitch!"  
  
The man, his bloodied face falling, tore his gaze from the woman he stradled and looked at Ortiz.  
  
"This isn't what it looks like!" he cried, struggling to his feet, staggering against the wall, waving his hands. "Somebody attacked me-"  
  
"Looks like you attacked her, pal!" Ortiz blasted, springing forward and catching the man in suprise, fluidly twisting the arm around the attacker's back. The attacker yelped, and Ortiz raised the arm a notch higher. "Don't move, bastard!" Crushing the bloody man against the wall, he fumbled for his cell phone and punched in the numbers hurridly as the attacker blabbled aplogies and cries of innocence. "Richmond!" he yelled into the phone, recongizing the voice of the young, green rookie. "I need backup on Thirty First and Almond! Keep it quiet and send over the proper authorities, I have a possibel homocide-"  
  
"I didn't kill her!" the attacker protested. Ortiz drove his knee into the man's spine.  
  
"Do it, Richmond, and hurry!"  
  
"Right away, sir!" the rookie answered, awestruck, and hung up the phone.  
  
"I didn't do anything," the attacker pleaded, his eyes focused on the bloody woman. "I didn't! I got attacked-"  
  
"And your accomplice left you here to take the rap!" Ortiz interrupted, whipping out his handcuffs and bounding the attacker's hands behind his back. "I know it all, pal! Don't move, or you make me use my gun, bastard!" Holding the chain of the cuffs, Ortiz bent down and checked the vitals of the limp woman. He blinked, his mind boiling with rage and injustice.  
  
"She's dead!" Ortiz roared, flinging the stunned attacker into the rough wall of the damp alleyway. "You *bastard,* you killed her! How do you justify that?"  
  
"I didn't kill her!" insisted the sobbing, shaking man. "Please, believe me!"  
  
"Your name?" Ortiz said roughly.  
  
"Chris Irvine," complied the attacker, his head hung. "You have to believe me-"  
  
"Cut the crap, asshole!" Ortiz barked. Suddenly lights illuminated the far end of the alleyway, and a siren pierced the breathy silence. Smiling savagely, Ortiz shone his flashlight on the bloodied, tear-streaked face of the attacker. "We'll see how well you handle this, asshole."  
  
  
  
  
  
CHAPTER THREE  
  
  
  
*''I sit here locked inside my head Remembering everything you've said The silence gets us nowhere, Gets us nowhere way too fast*  
  
Kurt Angle turned down the dial of the radio as a knock bounced off the walls of his small hotel room. Wincing as he got his feet, he limped to the door and peeped out the hole. Confusedly, he opened it.  
  
"Mark,' he said, grimacing as leaned heavily against the wall.  
  
"You seem jacked up terribly," Mark Calloway remarked, nodding.  
  
"Thanks, I really should be in a hospital," Kurt said, managing to grin. "But when they took Shane, I decided I didn't want to be poked and prodded tonight."  
  
"You should be spending the night in Needle Land."  
  
"The Land of the Few and the Brave," nodded Mark, smiling. "You okay?"  
  
"I seem to be. I have a sprained tailbone, a concussion, a freak show of bruises and bumps. Would you like to see the bruise on the inside of my thigh? I think it looks like Madonna, but Shane insisted it looked like Cher. Personally, Cher's too-"  
  
"I don't want to see it," Mark said quickly. "Have you seen Chris?"  
  
"Jericho or Benoit?"  
  
"Jericho," Mark answered. "He should be back by now."  
  
"Sweet, Mark's being motherhen," Kurt said, smiling, "but I don't know where he is. Why?"  
  
"I think he went to a bar-"  
  
"I should have went," Kurt interjected.  
  
"That you should," agreed Mark. "But he had a bad concussion, and wasn't exactly set."  
  
"Poor him," Kurt said, catching sound of his turned down radio, and the song that was almost over. "Listen, he'll be fine, but you're making me miss my song!"  
  
"Staind?" questioned Mark as Kurt limped and slipped the dial back up.  
  
"It's on CD, but I love this song. Anyways, don't worry 'bout Chris. He's a big guy, not too bright, but he can take care of himself, believe me. He's smart-"  
  
"You said he wasn't bright."  
  
"I lied. Anyways, don't worry. Go back to sleep, you need it, Dead Man."  
  
"Good match, Kurt," allowed Mark as he slid out the door.  
  
"You too, Mark."  
  
"I hate Staind," Mark said quickly as the door shut.  
  
"Bastard."  
  
  
  
Thumping noises in the hallway outside his room. Arguing voices and angry words.  
  
Frowing, Mark went to the door and opened it, putting his head through.  
  
The owner of the WWF, Vince McMahon, was having a spirited debate with Kurt Angle. An injured Kurt was angrily pumping his fist into the air, motioning to nothing.  
  
"Kurt, please, you're hurt-" Vince was protesting.  
  
"I've been more injured than this!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Whatcha guys talking about?" Mark said casually as he swung out the door. Vince's eyes flustered as he saw Mark. Vince was good guy, a guy people could trust, and have solid, loyal relationships with. Mark himself considered the WWF owner a personal friend. Kurt's next words stopped his muses.  
  
"Chris is in police custody! They said he killed a woman!"  
  
"He . . . what?" Mark sputtered.  
  
"He killed somebody!" Vince exploded. "He couldn't have, couldn't have! He's too friendly to kill anybody! He comes from Canada, the land of insanely nice people!"  
  
"I could object," Kurt muttered, then rose his voice. "Please, Vince, you have to listen! We both know him, we're his friends!"  
  
Mark was still trying to comprehend what Kurt had said when Vince sighed.  
  
"Get your damn jackets," he snarled, fixating his eye on Kurt. "You ain't catching a cold too!"  
  
"Oh, you're too nice!" Kurt began to jump up and down. "We'll storm that damn police station to rescue or wounded warrior, Jericho!" He suddenly stopped and stooped, clucthing his back, grimacing. He smiled at Vince and Mark painfully. "Uh . . . you can storm the police station, I'll be lookout."  
  
"You're sickening," Mark said, blinking, and went back into his room, emerging in a leather jacket and Kurt limped out with a wool coat over his shoulder.  
  
"Leather costs too much," he complained, looking at Mark.  
  
"It wouldn't look good on you, anyway."  
  
"Would too!"  
  
"You're full of yourself!"  
  
"Am not, you . . .you . . . leather wearing freak!"  
  
"That's the best you can come up with?"  
  
"Let's go, people, I'm kinnda late," Vince said pointedly, rushing forward.  
  
Mark smiled and followed, and then realized what he was going to do.  
  
He was following Vince McMahon to a police station.  
  
Chris Irvine was in police custody being held on murder charges.  
  
This was going to be a bad day, and he almost heard the strains of Kurt's Staind CD in his ears:  
  
*'Cause it's always raining in my head Forget all the things I should have said*  
  
  
  
  
  
This is not a song-fic, I got the Staind CD today and love it. The songs sort of fit together. I don't own Staind, only the people you don't know, like Paul Ortiz. I'm sorry if this is disappointing you, because you thought the prolouge was going to be like the fic. The prolouge is something that's going to happen, but to learn why he's a catatonic, you gotta know what happens first. Sorry if I gave it away, but I couldn't help it.  
  
Reviewing is greatly appreciated, please. 


	4. chapts 45

I'm baaaaack! It's been awhile folks, but guess what? I'm baaaaack! These chapters are going to be up and moving soon! YEEEES!  
  
This story has been in my head forever and finally you beautiful readers get to read it. I feel so happy, I could sing! But I won't do that to you, my wonderful readers.  
  
Whew, calm down Akila. I'm a bit hyped, as it may be. Got the Internet today, get to watch the "Scorpion King" and just saw "Behind Enemy Lines." That's a great movie, by the way. Owen Wilson is great! It's given me some great inspiration, not to mention I've just read some really good theories about Chris Jericho and Stephanie . . . but I'll let you find that all your own!  
  
So, without any more pretenses, I give you the next chapter of "The Only Way Out is In."  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Four  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Let's take my van," said Kurt, his eyes sparkling with determination and plain weariness. "It's a mini-van."  
  
"Where'd you get the money to rent a van?" asked Mark, suspiciously, vainly trying to keep his mind away from the troubling matters at hand.  
  
Kurt's ears went red. "Well, you see, the guy who sold it to me-"  
  
"Was a fan," said Vince, laughing as they the elevator clanged open.  
  
"He looked like a fan!" said Kurt defensively. "Also my cousin! My cousin's a lawyer, damn you, so don't you even think about anything funny now . . . ouch, don't push me!'  
  
"Sorry," Mark said innocently. "Just get your ass to hurry up."  
  
"Picky, picky." Kurt marched determinedly outside the doors of the hotel into the parking lot, where he promptly almost got hit by a car. "Damn you! What? Go to hell!"  
  
"You know, people can always sue," Vince remarked.  
  
"Cousin, lawyer, my ass dosen't care."  
  
They reached the silver Astrovan in the next five minutes, Kurt still limping from his injuries that he had received. Kurt climbed into the driver's seat, Vince the passenger, and Mark was left with the back.  
  
"Fasten your seatbelts, boys and girls," announced Kurt, warming the engine up, "we're blasting off in a few seconds."  
  
Mark didn't bother; how harmful could docile Kurt be?  
  
Besides, he thought, a flame of anger jerking through his mind, I have to figure out how the hell Chris is going to die when I find him.  
  
The van moved slowly backward as Kurt righted it. "Hang on," he announced again and his foot slammed into the gas pedal.  
  
"KURT!" Mark shrieked, falling backwards, sliding into the window.  
  
"I said to put your seatbelt on!" Kurt hollered, slamming into traffic before he even stopped to look. "Oopsies!"  
  
"Oopsies?" roared Vince, struggling fiercely with his belt. "What the hell does 'oopsies' mean?"  
  
"Just that-oopsies double!" Kurt said it almost giddily as narrowly avoided smashing into a parked car.  
  
"KURT!"  
  
"Boy, it's hot in here." Rolling down his window, they came to a lull in traffic.  
  
"I can't believe you," Vince said murderously. "Who the hell gave you your license?"  
  
"Uh . . . well, it's sort of revoked, but I get it back in six months, don't worry," Kurt said, almost nonchalantly. "If the judge decides that the accident was purely the girl's fault."  
  
"Accident?" Mark's voice was horrified.  
  
"Yeah, she pulled in front of me and I hit her. She cracked her neck, but she should be okay."  
  
"Neck?" Mark sounded even more terrified.  
  
"Yeah, but if the judge decided it wasn't my fault, I get the remains of my car back with no extra cost and I can have a proper burial."  
  
"Burial?"  
  
"Yeah-light's green, let's carry on." Kurt applied pressure to the gas again and they went forward.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Five  
  
  
  
They took pictures.  
  
Barely conscious, I had subjected to everything, even to their damn questioning, even when I knew I shouldn't have. The alcohol I had consumed was taking its toll. They tested my level, my eyes, my ears, my mind.  
  
The pictures were the most annoying, and the fingerprinting. They wouldn't let me clean myself of the blood until they had removed every sample from my body.  
  
The blood of the body.  
  
Oh God, what had happened? I could hardly remember. They asked me that question, hammered it into my head during the questioning. And I had no answer for them.  
  
What answer could I have?  
  
I didn't do it!  
  
That was the only thing that rang through my mind. I couldn't have done it. It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me.  
  
I couldn't kill somebody. I couldn't!  
  
Oh God, what were they going to do to me?  
  
  
  
They stuck in a cell.  
  
Staggering over to the small bed, I collapsed onto it, worn out and desperate. Ortiz, the damn police chief, had given me nothing but the go ahead to clean myself up. I was alone in this damn cell, with only thoughts and the blood clinging to my hands. Lying back on the bunk, I tried to reconstruct the last moments of the world as I had known it.  
  
I had drinks . . . I had walked outside the door . . . which door? The door to where? December?  
  
No . . . not December . . . to an alley. Disoriented, I had walked outside to the trash alley. And . . .  
  
I froze rigidly. My breath began to come out painfully; I could barely see.  
  
No. It had been . . . him. The entity with no name. The figure that had haunted me in my dreams while I had slept.  
  
No. I had left that labyrinth long ago.  
  
But it had been . . .  
  
NO!  
  
I sat back against the wall, banging my bloody head against the cold steel for all I was worth, forgetting that a concussion was still dominant within my mind.  
  
No. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.  
  
But this is what everybody does, I though in a daze. No acceptance of the inevitable.  
  
But why? Why now? Why did it have to be now, after all these years?  
  
And the threat.  
  
He had threatened me. The words played back again: if you tell, I will kill you.  
  
I had no reason to doubt that he wouldn't. He had almost done it before, only time had stopped him from completing his horrendous task.  
  
I began to tremble.  
  
No, not again. I had suffered enough. Why in this way?  
  
He had always been one to make me suffer. He was making me suffer now, rotting in this prison of steel and the prison of my own mind . . .  
  
Suffer the children.  
  
The saying that was glorification and pitiful. Suffer the little children. Like he was making me suffer now.  
  
No.  
  
But if was making me suffer . . . he had killed the lady! I had not!  
  
I was innocent and not stuck in this mess that I had dragged myself into!  
  
But he was going to kill me.  
  
In blood.  
  
But it wasn't me.  
  
But he would kill me.  
  
I trembled again, shivering violently. He was going to kill me if I told.  
  
I can't tell. I can't tell anything!  
  
Determinedly, I stared forward at the wall, my head slipping toward my shoulder.  
  
There were two simple choices: I could tell and be cleared, possibly. The second was that I could not tell and not be killed.  
  
There really was no other option.  
  
I had suffered enough already. There was nothing in the world that could make me live through what I already lived through.  
  
Suffer the little children.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yes, I know, very chaotic, but I really wanted you guys to get a feel of what he's feeling right now and the mind frame. That's important to me, conveying real feelings and real life.  
  
Oh yeah, major shout out to all of you who reviewed. Next time I'll name you specifically, but it is about eleven at night, I have to go and help at a ROTC carwash tomorrow, and believe me, I know what it feels like to not have enough sleep! So I'll catch all of you guys later who reviewed and thanks again!  
  
Akila 


	5. chapter ?

Hey, guys. Long time no write.  
  
~*~*~*~The Only Way Out Is In~*~*~*~*~  
  
He didn't exactly know what Vince's plan was. It wasn't like they were in any position of power to do anything. He didn't know the process that suspects for murder went through. Would they even allow them into the room to see Chris? Was Chris even in a room? Or was he locked behind iron bars?  
  
Vince stopped them outside the doors of the police station and suddenly Kurt looked up at Mark keenly, knowing what the halt was for. "Mark, you stay here."  
  
"Vince!" Mark started, outraged.  
  
"Mark, no arguments. I don't want people stopping and staring."  
  
Mark growled and was about to protest when Kurt said, hastily, "Listen, Mark, I'll come and get you if they let us go in. I'll even let you be first in line to kill him." He waited for Mark's reaction, which was a growling chuckle, but it was permissible.  
  
He and Vince walked in through the double doors. The place was half- full, with officers standing by a bench with men handcuffed sitting on it. They didn't appear to be doing anything. A long, glossy counter dominated the room, with desks and tables behind it. Uniformed officers bustled around, carrying papers, laughing, yelling. A young officer sat behind the counter, tapping away at a computer.  
  
Kurt hung his head, feeling pain log into him. Too much light and too much noise were not doing his concussion any good. Nonetheless, he followed Vince to the counter and to the young officer, who stopped his typing to look up.  
  
"Excuse me, sir," Vince said respectfully. "I'm looking for someone. His name is Chris Irvine and he was brought in earlier this morning."  
  
The young officer looked up, startled, and his liquid green eyes were blazing anger. "You are aware he is being held on murder?" he asked, his voice pinched.  
  
Vince's eyes widened. "Yes, sir, I am. I want to know if I can see him, sir."  
  
"I don't think," the young officer replied, carefully. "Murder suspects aren't usually allowed this."  
  
Kurt spoke, quietly, "Is there a manager or someone we can talk to, please?"  
  
The officer, whose name tag read WILLIAMS, said, curtly, "No, sir. We're quite busy, as you can see. The only thing I can advise you to do is to leave and wait until you receive a phone call."  
  
"Sir, please-"Vince started to protest.  
  
This is going nowhere, Kurt thought immediately as he saw the man's jaw line set. He gazed around the room. Drastic measures, he sang, drastic measures will do anything.  
  
He drew in his breath, hardly aware of what he was doing.  
  
"I WANT TO SEE MY FRIEND, AND I WANT TO SEE HIM NOW!" He shouted at the young officer, who looked badly surprised as Kurt started to scream in his face. Vince had taken a step back, shocked at the outburst. Suddenly the room was unnaturally quiet as all stopped to look. "I WANT TO SEE MY FRIEND! YOU HEAR ME? I'M GOING TO KILL SOMEBODY IF YOU DON'T LET ME SEE HIM! AHHHH!"  
  
Two officers came towards him, hands up, helpless. "Take it easy, fella, I'm sure we can have something worked out. Just calm down and be quiet."  
  
Kurt kept screaming, "I WANT HIM! YOU HEAR ME? WHERE THE HELL IS HE?"  
  
"Shut up!" Vince hissed, trying to stop him.  
  
"NO! YOU CAN'T SHUT ME UP! I WANT TO SEE CHRIS IRVINE AND I WANT TO SEE HIM NOOOOOW!"  
  
"Shut up!" shouted a new voice and Kurt swiveled to look. A man, gray and balding, was rushing up to him, his face angry. "I have you friend. Stop this ruckus!"  
  
Kurt stopped, smiling at him brightly as his angry air stepped up. "Now that wasn't too hard, was it?" he said, pleasantly.  
  
"Follow me," said the gray, thick man. "Don't say another word."  
  
Kurt and Vince fell into step behind him, Vince staring at Kurt in amazement. "I can't believe it. You're crazy."  
  
"That's what my psychiatrist says," Kurt nodded. "But then, of course, I just say the same to him."  
  
The man, whose name tag read ORTIZ, led them to a room down a quiet, deserted highway. They passed empty holding cells until they reached the room, which was painted ice cream green. They entered the room and Ortiz motioned for them to sit.  
  
"Chris Irvine," Vince said, automatically, "I want to see him."  
  
"This is a liberty that I'm taking with you right now," Ortiz said, turning his head toward him, his eyes flaming. "You are not at any privilege to demand. I will tell you what I can and then you will have to leave. No questions asked, and no more screaming fits." He looked at Kurt, who innocently shrugged.  
  
"Christopher Keith Irvine," Ortiz said, suddenly dropping a manila file onto the cream colored table. "Born October 9, 1970, is currently in one of our special holding rooms. He has been questioned, photographed, fingerprinted, and looked over for any evidence. Now he is waiting. Evidence is being collected from the crime scene. He will be arraigned as soon as possible for the murder of Elaine Rodriguez."  
  
"How do you know he did it?" Kurt asked, outraged.  
  
"I found him personally over the body of the victim," said Ortiz crudely. "He was drunk at the time of the murder; our tests showed this and he admitted to it. Evidence will be collected from the crime scene. That is all I can tell you right now."  
  
"Does he have a lawyer?" asked Vince.  
  
"He will get one or he will have one assigned to him by the state," said Ortiz, nodding.  
  
"Can we see him?" blurted Kurt.  
  
Ortiz paused and looked at him venomously. "Not at this very moment, no. He needs to meet with his lawyer first and then, perhaps, he can have a visitor. If he makes bail, he will able to leave."  
  
"Can-"  
  
"No more questions," said Ortiz curtly, going to the door. "You're leaving. Now."  
  
~*~*~*~* Kurt and Vince met Mark outside the police station. Mark was counting the blades of grass when they came out and he pounced on them immediately.  
  
"Nothing came," said Kurt, shaking his head. "They won't let us see him."  
  
"So it's true?" Mark said it as a lame question.  
  
"Damn straight," Vince cursed as they headed back toward the van. "Damn him, damn him, damn him! Do you realize how seriously this is going to plunder us? He's a main eventer, for Christ's sakes, and he's in jail for a murder? What the hell was he doing out anyway?"  
  
Mark coughed.  
  
"I'm going to kill him," Vince continued raging, obviously not catching Mark's pause. "He's going to die for this. He's putting us behind . . . there's no way he can be out by tonight and . . ."  
  
Vince looked up suddenly, as if he had seen the light.  
  
"Get us back to the damn hotel!" he suddenly shouted at Kurt and Kurt jumped sideways at the outburst. "Hurry up! I mean it, move it!"  
  
Kurt hopped into the driver's seat and Mark leapt into the back as Vince got into the passengers side.  
  
"HURRY, KURT, DRIVE LIKE HELL!"  
  
Kurt looked at Mark pitifully as he pulled out of the parking lot.  
  
Mark slapped the seatbelt over his chest, wondering if he should find a helmet.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Suffer the children.  
  
I stared at the darkness, ominous, dark, deadly, a snake.  
  
Suffer the little children.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
Not much accomplished with this chapter, I'm sorry, but it's the best I could do.  
  
And if the legal stuff is screwed . . . I'm sorry. I'm no lawyer. I knew more two years ago when I wrote this, but now I'm messed up. Thank you. 


End file.
